


i'll go along with everything you say

by south_like_sherman



Series: press my nose up to the glass around your heart [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Asexual Character, Asexual John Laurens, Asexuality, Communication, Healthy Relationships, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Making Out, Non-consensual sex, alex doesn't know, bc i am TOO YOUNG to write smut, but kinda?, but not??, john is too goddamn angsty, john just needs to TALK ABOUT HIS FEELINGS, just putting that warning there in case, second chapter i promise they'll sort their shit out, see i told you it'd work out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-09-25 13:29:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9822698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/south_like_sherman/pseuds/south_like_sherman
Summary: "Love is getting up early and watching the sunrise, holding someones hand in the street despite the fact you feel like you're burning, love is late nights and popcorn and tasting the salt on someone else's lips, love is soft and warm and comforting; love is coming home. Lust is tearing open someone else's skin and licking away the blood, driving into someone so hard they break apart and calling it love, lust is hot and burning andpain. John doesn't want to feel that with Alex- not yet, at least. He knows the day will come when Alex will push him against the wall, will take everything John has and kiss away his tears because he's been taught that means love."orjohn will do everything and anything to keep alex by his side.[john is an Emotional Wreck™]// i know that time has numbered my days //// and i'll go along with everything you say //// but i'll ride home laughing look at me now //// for the walls of my tower they come crumbling down//





	1. Chapter 1

The thing people need to understand, is that John doesn't- he doesn't understand why sex makes up such a large part of people's relationships, why it's considered so normal, why it's required, why it defines you, why everyone craves it. The closest he's come to understanding was a hot, sticky night in a strangers apartment, where he'd felt nothing past the burning desire between his thighs, where he'd smelled nothing behind the overwhelming musk of Alex's skin, where he'd forgotten how to do anything but arch his back and beg for more, fisting the sheets and pretending they were something else. The next morning, he'd left before he could find out what that something might've been.

Alex and him have been 'together' for a few months now, and John thinks he might be getting better, thinks this might be the 'happy' thing people are always talking about. He can't remember what his flat looked like without Alex's clothes strewn over the floor, without empty coffee cups littering the counter, without the scent of Alex imbedded in his pillows, in his sheets (because whenever Alex touches anything, he leaves part of himself behind- a bright, burning fingerprint that sinks into the surface and stays there- fingerprints that cover John, trail over his neck and cheek and chest and back and _everywhere_ , because Alex is everywhere).

He and Alex met in lust and desire, in flames and ash, so it's only natural their relationship should be expected to continue that way- only, it doesn't (certainly not from lack of trying on Alex's part, though- but it should be noted that he backs off almost immediately, because consent is fucking important). It's not that John doesn't love Alex (which is pretty ridiculous, seeing as they literally just met a few months ago), but he's not so fond of all _that_ stuff. It isn't a problem of body insecurity though, or any of that shit to be honest, because John knows he's not exactly unfit (one of the small blessings of three years in the military)- but the concepts of lust and love don't exactly match up in John's mind.

Love is getting up early and watching the sunrise, holding someones hand in the street despite the fact you feel like you're burning, love is late nights and popcorn and tasting the salt on someone else's lips, love is soft and warm and comforting; love is coming home. Lust is tearing open someone else's skin and licking away the blood, driving into someone so hard they break apart and calling it love, lust is hot and burning and _pain_. John doesn't want to feel that with Alex- not yet, at least. He knows the day will come when Alex will push him against the wall, will take everything John has and kiss away his tears because he's been taught that means love.

He doesn't remember much from that night- only the unbearable heat and the lights and Alex's skin sliding against his own, Alex's hands everywhere and nowhere at once, burning up and melting and dying (but _living_ ), growing shattered wings of glass and alcohol, and the feeling of flying right through the sticky jasmine air. Which of course, meant that when he'd come crashing down, it hurt all that much more.

John is twenty-two (although he's forgotten what it feels like to actually celebrate the turning of the years- last year he'd been in Syria, and the small, flickering fires could've easily been mistaken for candles, he supposes). Twenty-two year olds are supposed to just be finishing up with college, should be getting their first real jobs and going out with friends, sleeping with random strangers in bars and never calling them back, laughing about it the next day. At twenty-two, John has lost all contact with people who called him family, lived rough on the streets for a year, performed three years of active service in the military, and still has no clue of what he's going to do with his life. He thinks he wants to die, because he has no reason to live.

That early morning on the roof he'd been so ready to give it all up, to let himself go and melt away with the soft, pale dawn sky. Sometimes, he wishes he had; then maybe Alex wouldn't be saddled with him, because he knows Alex only stays out of pity- and still, he doesn't want him leave. Not yet, at least. He knows Alex will leave eventually, knows it'll end in tears and something else, sharp and acrid and bitter, something that leaves an ashy taste in his mouth, knows that day will come- but as long as it's not today, he doesn't mind. He thinks he'll do anything to keep Alex by his side just a little longer.

So when Alex presses him down into the bed, he tries his best not to flinch (of course, his best isn't enough). The sheets are hot and thick and suffocating, so he arches away from them, trying to escape the burning press of Alex's body against his. He twists his head slightly so his cheek is crushed into the pillow, sweat-damp curls splayed in a dark ring, framing his face in a tangled mass. He pretends he doesn't want to brush it away. Squeezing his eyes tight shut, he grips harder at Alex's hip, eyelashes clumping and sticking together, because he doesn't want to open his eyes, because it's _so fucking bright_ , and he's sure if he does he'll be blinded, and he still has so many things he wants to see.

Alex is hard against him, unyielding stone, and John spreads his palms over his chest, pushing slightly to see if he'll give. He doesn't. Instead, he shuffles slightly, readjusting his body over John's so he's propped up on his elbows, bumping his nose clumsily against John's, a warm huff of air escaping from his parted lips. Alex leans down, brushing his mouth over John's with a feather-light intensity, and part of John wants to pull him back down, lick into his mouth, hot and wet, kiss him until his lips are bruised and red and swollen, until pleasure is bordering on pain and keep kissing anyway. The other part wants to curl up into a ball, retreat into himself and stay hidden until the lights have faded, until there's nothing left but himself and oblivion. Oblivion is soft and sweet and welcoming, and he thinks it would be nice to let himself sink into it, fold himself into the hazy clouds and melt into them, until he's nothing but fog and sunlight.

Sometimes he wishes he could hate Alex, because god, it would be so much _easier_ \- but how can a person hate the sun? _Pay no worship to the garish sun_ , he thinks, and chuckles, the laughter dripping from his lips, low and raw and dark and bitter. He will kneel before the sun and he will let himself burn just to be near, to be close enough to touch the colours drifting through the air, and when he's gone, when there's nothing left of him but ash, he will smile. After all, he's never listened to Shakespeare.

There's something coiling in his muscles, something cold and icy and heavy, weighing in his veins like his blood has suddenly frozen, turned to stone. He sucks in a sharp breath, the sudden intake burning his throat, bitter and ashy, choking him. He flicks his eyes up to the milky ceiling, following the crack in the plaster like it's his lifeline. His body is taught and trembling, and he's so full of life it's overflowing, but he can't move, he's frozen and summer never seems to come. He wishes he could see the sun- but the sun is gone, so he glances back to Alex, and thinks _close enough_.

Alex pulls away slightly, so there's nothing but the hot, heavy air between them, and John's not sure whether it's a relief or a disappointment. He gasps, choking on the thick fog surrounding him (he thinks it's smoke, thinks he might be burning), the desperate desire for air filling his aching lungs, leaving no room for anything else.

"John?" There's a question in Alex's voice when he speaks, and his hot, sticky breath does nothing to cool the flames between them.

The sheets stick to John's slick, heavy skin, and he squirms away from the blinding light, lifting a hand and pressing it over his burning eyes.

"Jesus- fuck, you're shaking," Alex breathes, and his words hang in the air, clinging to the smoke and the fog and the flames. John thinks he can smell the jasmine.

John shakes his head, tries to speak- but the words stick to his throat, come out clingy and broken, like half of them are still hanging onto his lips. The vowels are rounded and drawled, coated in the slick layer of the southern accent he'd tried so hard to lose.

"'S nothing. 'M fine."

He presses himself up to Alex again, trying to ignore the awful, aching burn that sets deep in his bones. If he goes through with this, maybe Alex will stay for just a bit longer, because when Alex touches him it's something so bright and heavenly and indescribably beautiful it borders on pain, and John will grit his teeth and John will lie and John will force a laugh; John will look straight into the hot, burning sun if it means holding onto Alex.

He pushes his lips insistently against Alex's, pretending the slick slide of skin on skin doesn't make him want to flinch away, and the shivers that wrack his body are only from pleasure. He's almost relieved when Alex responds.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "In the end, John writes it down."

Alex's bathroom is white, John notices as he leans over the glistening toilet bowl and retches. He's empty at this point—he's hollow and he feels like if someone tapped him he'd shatter, fall apart, and there would be nothing inside but a dried out husk of _something_. John is hollow. He wants to be a vase, wants to be something people fill with water and flowers and call beautiful. He wants something inside him that's solid, something more lovely than anything he could ever imagine.

His fingers curl around the smooth edge of the bowl, and he wonders if he tries hard enough he can shatter it. His stomach spasms once more, muscles rippling and stretching, and he feels like he could tear them apart. Like he's made of tissue paper, and he can shred everything. He wants to rip himself apart. Wants to see the water and the flowers spill out of his vase-like skin, and he wants people to cut themselves on the fragmented pieces of his flesh. He wants to be dangerous.

He wants to have knives for fingers instead of leaves, and he wants to be able to see past the stems crowding his vision, and he wants his veins to be filled with something other than green. In other words, he wants to be like Alex. He wants grenades in his brain and fire instead of blood, and he wants daffodils in his eyes, he wants something soft and something original and something to call his own.

Alex is soft though. Soft, when he presses John into the sheets and tells him he loves him, soft when he pushes into John, soft when he kisses away the blue rimming John's sea-salt eyes. Soft soft soft soft soft, and John wants to melt. Wants too much. (Wants it to stop.)

He doesn't know why, but he's always been obsessed with his wrists. Obsessed with tracing the blue-green-gold veins just below his glass skin, obsessed with the smooth, transparent flesh protecting them. He thinks about how easy it would be to snap them, shatter his porcelain bones and break the glass. Watch the ink spill out of his veins, because he thinks he's made of words. Not his own, but Alex's. (Thinks he's made of Alex.)

His head is filled something hot and heavy, weighing on his curls and dragging him down. He wonders how his neck is strong enough to support something so heavy. Sometimes he traces the fine bones, running his finger over the knobs underneath his skin and wonders why something so delicate was made for him. Why they thought he would be able to resist breaking it. He thinks of knotting ropes and stringing himself up by his wrists. He thinks of singing and tying nooses.

He looks at himself and he sees eyes and freckles and bones and skin. He's real, he tells himself, running his finger over porcelain joints. He wishes he could be seen, wishes he was made of something other than glass and other people's heartbreak.

He's thinking of Alex again, and trying not to throw up. His throat is sore at this point, and there's something like rust coating his tongue. He runs it over the ridges of his teeth and tastes blood. Tastes salt.

But—he thinks of Alex's little sighs and drawn out groans, and the way he'd arched his back and he's sure he can stand it for a bit longer, just for Alex. (Then he remember Alex's hand between his thighs. The gritty drag and unbearable friction of skin on skin, the sweat trickling over the dip of his collar. The salt crusting over his eyes. Decides he hates it.)

And, there's a light. It's bright and sudden and too soon, and John finds his stomach roiling again, finds himself retching into his hand because there's nothing left to expel from his empty, aching stomach.

"Jesus, John—"

Alex seems to be saying that a lot. That is, saying his name like he can't quite believe something, and John's not sure whether to expect praise or criticism to roll off his tongue. Alex can cut him down so easily, he knows it. Like, if Alex pushed him he'd just snap. Of course, it's not Alex's fault—porcelain is so easy to break, after all.

He twists his head, damp curls clinging to his slick skin, and he rakes his blunt nails through the knotted strands. Thumbs at the hollow just beneath his ear, and wonders if he can break skin if he presses hard enough. He wants to see blood under his fingernails. Pick at the rusty red layer of grime for weeks with a thumb and forefinger, just to have something to do. Maybe dig them into Alex's back, leave lines on his skin, stain him too. He hopes it wouldn't hurt, because—Alex shouldn't have to hurt. Pain isn't for people like Alex. Pain is for people like John, people who willingly offer themselves up to the sensation, who throw themselves in front of bullets, who offer their wrists up to silver blades and stand at the edge of buildings and think how easy it would be to just _jump_.

"John—" A hand presses to his forehead, warm and soft. He almost wants to lean into it. "John, baby, are you sick?"

John kind of wants to laugh at that, because. Yeah, he's sick, you could say. He thinks he's sick, sick in the head.

"Yeah," he croaks, voice cracking. He taps the side of his temple with a finger, and wonders if he can drill into his skull. (Because—maybe if he got inside, he could fix whatever's wrong with him, whatever managed to fuck up along the way. Why he doesn't like things he should, why he can't just use his mouth for kissing like he knows he should.)

Alex is pulling him closer, kissing his temple and twisting his fingers through John's tangled curls, and his other hand is taking John's clammy palm in his own and thumbing small circles over the centre.

"If you're gonna hurl," he murmurs into John's hair, "Aim towards the toilet, ok?"

John let's out a broken kind of half-laugh, and nuzzles into the soft hollow of Alex's neck.

"Not gonna hurl."

* *

John can taste salt in his mouth as Alex kisses him. Can feel it hardening over his skin in a rough, blue-ish shell, can feel it filling his eyes and his head and his lungs, and he can't _breathe_ and—

He can taste salt. His hands are spread flat over Alex's chest and he can feel fucking everything. Alex's breath beneath his fingers and his heartbeat and the outline of his rib cage. (It doesn't make sense for someone like Alex to have a rib cage, because—well, it's in the name, isn't it? Rib cage.)

There's something building behind his eyes, something like a wave and it's surging over his eyes and it _hurts_ , because salt always stings his eyes. Rubs his skin raw and gives him white, crusted sores when he's submerged for too long. He can feel his skin creasing, can feel himself ageing. His bones are so old.

He whines against Alex's lips, something small and soft, and it melts away into the air and he's sure he never even made a sound. He tries to twist away, because he's not sure he can do this today. He's got a headache and he's _tired_ , and he doesn't feel like pretending right now.

He blinks away the salty film over his pupils, clears his vision. It feels wrong to kiss like this. To kiss another boy with your eyes wide open, to kiss Alex when he knows it's only going to go further and keep looking at his face and thinking how soft he looks in this light. And—he pulls away, because he doesn't trust himself. Because there are beams of sunlight falling in soft patterns across Alex's fine features, and John thinks he's glowing. (John thinks Alex is carved from marble sometimes, that he's art, but—Alex is too soft for that. Too full of fire, as well. Too full.)

Alex pauses, and his breath is coming in short huffs through his reddened lips, and he looks so lost without John's cheek pressed right to his. He flicks out his tongue and swipes it over his lower lip briefly, before catching his breath.

"Why'd you stop?" He whines, eyelids flickering open. His eyes are almost honey in this light. Thick and velvety. Sticky. (He thinks of salt.)

Their face are still just bare inches apart, and Alex leans forwards a bit, bumping their noses together, brushing his chapped lips against John's. (John likes kissing Alex, but—he knows where it leads).

He pulls back even further, taking his hands from the planes of Alex's chest and pushing himself a couple inches away. He ignores the way his fingers feel empty without anything beneath them.

Alex gives him a soft, quizzical look, arching one thick brow.

"John?"

He moves towards John, fingers flexing in the air above John's arm like he's going to touch him and—John can't. Not right now.

He stands up abruptly pushing himself off of the shabby couch with white-knuckled fists, and turns his back. Walks out of the flat with pale crescents pressed into his palms and finger nails that need to be cut, and no coat because it's not that cold, anyway.

He comes back with bruises on his knuckles and blood on his lips and a stranger's fists pressed into his rib cage, but at least it's not salt. Alex doesn't ask any questions. Just patches him up, presses a kiss to his knuckles and brings him to bed. Tells him he loves him, over and over and over and—blood is better than salt.

* *

In the end, John writes it down. Slides it over to Alex in a note, because he can't bear to go on like this anymore. Tells him he hates salt and sweat and kissing with his eyes open. Alex is reading it and he looks like he's about to cry, and John's telling him not to even though he's not yet because boys as pretty as him shouldn't cry. But he does anyway, halfway through the inky words, and clutches the notepaper, crumples it in his too-long fingernails and John tries to reach out for him but Alex tells him not to because—

It feels like he's afraid to touch John now. He apologises, over and over and over and curls into himself and refuses to touch him, and John misses it. Misses his impossible rib cage and his breath and his heartbeat and his honey eyes because it feels like he never opens them anymore.

And at some point, John nuzzles into his neck. Prises his arms apart and folds himself Alex's chest, tells him this is ok, pushes himself beneath Alex's hands and tells him it's ok, it's ok it's ok it's ok.

Alex still apologises, still wrings his wrists and looks at John with soft, wary eyes, holds him like he might break.

At some point, John kisses him and that's it and that's it and that's _it_. Just presses their lips together and closes his eyes until Alex kisses back, until Alex has three fingers of one hand winding through his hair and all five on the other curling around his waist and thumbing small, soft circles over his skin. He bumps his nose into John's, and—

It's ok.

* *

They're twisted together in the sheets in a tangle of arms and legs and fingers and small laughs and soft kisses.

Alex tastes like peaches now, and his skin is soft when he curls around John. He feels like silk, and John thinks of honey and flowers and fingers curling around his waist. In his hair. It's better now, and John's skin is so much stronger than tissue paper. But—

"I'm sorry," Alex mumbles, and his arms are wound tightly around John's torso. Face hidden in his collar, and John thinks how similar loving another boy is to dying. To actually living. To breathing air instead of smoke and petals.

"I—"

John twists, kisses Alex until the words are lost in lips and honey and freckles. Puts a hand under Alex chin and thumbs along his jawline and feels his pulse. Presses his fingers against it and kisses that, too. (Honey and flowers and impossible rib cages and fingers in his hair—)

"It's ok," he says. Kisses everywhere he can reach, and Alex's skin is silk.

It's ok.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took so fucking long to write i'm so sorry,,,,,, i'm really not sure whether this is ok or just shit so um  
> comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!!! seriously i cry  
> tumblr is [here](https://the-girl-who-cried-ship.tumblr.com) if you wanna stalk me i like talking to strangers on the internet   
> have a lovely day! get some sleep if you're anything like me and are currently living on sugar
> 
> ~ Kinzie

**Author's Note:**

> i refuse to write smut until i am at least sixteen.  
> so i did this instead of writing my six page essay that's due in like three days yay  
> john's somewhere on the asexuality spectrum tho but he's cool with it when he's drunk??? i don't even know  
> hope it was worth it despite the angst? leave a comment if you want to make me cry i enjoy being an emotional wreck  
> title is from [this song](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=T-Y-4cuWvb0&time_continue=41) like EVERYTHING ELSE  
> it's a cover but it's my FAVOURITE COVER  
> find me on [tumblr](http://the-girl-who-cried-ship.tumblr.com) please and thank you i'd love to talk  
> thanks for reading, have a lovely day!
> 
> ~ Kinzie
> 
> P. S. thanks to [kitty](https://kitten-with-too-many-ships.tumblr.com) for proof reading this!
> 
> P. P. S. pay no worship to the garish sun is a quote from romeo and juliet. i am not shakespeare.  
> john's a maSSIVe shakespeare nerd in this series i've decided so


End file.
